


The Miracles of St. Jorian the Martyr

by AZDesertRose



Category: Deryni, Deryni Chronicles - Katherine Kurtz
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-25
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2019-05-08 08:59:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14690775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AZDesertRose/pseuds/AZDesertRose
Summary: The long-dead Jorian de Courcy continues to watch over his seminary classmate and friend, Denis Arilan, and over other Deryni as well.





	1. The First Witnessed Miracle

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published on rhemuthcastle.com. My username there is DesertRose.

**10 June 1121, the Cathedral of Saint Senan, Dhassa**

Denis Arilan, Auxiliary Bishop of Rhemuth, was not entirely sure why he had decided to go to the sanctuary in the middle of the night, but when he walked in, he heard what sounded like a muffled sob. He heard the quiet sound again and followed it to a prie-dieu tucked into an inconspicuous part of the sanctuary. There knelt a young man, probably no more than eighteen or nineteen years old, apparently praying and crying simultaneously. The young man looked up, and Denis noted that he was dressed very simply, probably a student at the seminary. The student had striking green eyes which were presently red from crying, his curly brown hair looked badly in need of a comb, and his cherubic young face was tear-streaked.

“Why are you so upset, my son?” he asked the young man.

The student choked back another sob. “I—I don’t think you’d understand, my lord.”

Denis sent out a very gentle tendril of thought and found, to his surprise, shields. He pulled his mind back so as not to upset the crying young man any further. “I might surprise you, my son.” Denis smiled much more gently than was his usual wont. “You might start by telling me who you are.”

The young man took a deep breath and calmed himself. “My name is John Nivard. I’m a student at the seminary.”

“If you don’t recognize me, I’m Bishop Arilan,” Denis said gently. “And I’d like to know why you’re crying at a prie-dieu in the middle of the night.”

John took another deep breath, working on calming himself further. “I hate to bother you, Bishop Arilan,” he began. “I have a vocation. Being a priest is all I’ve ever wanted to do with my life.” He stopped, on the verge of tears again.

“There’s nothing wrong with that, son,” Denis said, still gently, hoping to elicit further explanation.

Just as Denis finished that sentence, John looked over Denis’ shoulder. His green eyes widened hugely. Denis frowned at him briefly but John did not move. Denis turned on his heel to look behind himself and was equally dumbfounded.

There in the sanctuary stood the filmy figure of a young man with plain features, straight brown hair neatly barbered and tonsured, and kind brown eyes. The figure was dressed in a plain white cassock such as a priest would wear on his ordination day. Denis recognized him immediately and simply stared at the figure of the long-dead Jorian de Courcy. The figure’s face broke into a gentle smile as he looked first at Denis and then at John.

“My son,” he addressed John. “You are doing the right thing. You are the spearhead, and soon it will not even be remarkable to do what you are doing. In a few years, you will look back on your moments of doubt and laugh in the joy of your faith in God.”

Denis was absolutely floored. He had seen this figure several times since the execution of the man in life. Just as the bishop was about to speak, the ghostly form turned to him.

“My old friend.” Jorian smiled at Denis briefly before his face became solemn. “I come to warn you. There are many who would see you brought down and would see this student brought down with many others. You must be vigilant and you must be faithful.” 

The figure of Jorian smiled again. “Be blessed, both of you, and know that God loves you both, you and others who are not here.” He raised his right hand, made the sign of the Cross over the two men, and disappeared.

Denis stood, still speechless, watching the space where Jorian had been, but the apparition was gone. After a time of silence broken only by a breeze from outdoors, Denis turned to John.

“Since—since he spoke to you, I assume you could see him?” he asked hesitantly. John nodded, no longer crying. “Well,” Denis said quietly, turning away again. “That puts an interesting perspective on a number of things.” He paused again. “I’ve seen him many times, the night after my ordination being the first time I saw him like this.” He stopped.

John regarded Denis silently, not wanting to push the older man. Denis was not looking at John but rather at the place where the apparition had been.

Denis began again. “I knew him in life. His name is Jorian de Courcy, and he was executed for daring to be ordained a priest despite being Deryni.” Denis stopped again, and he heard John make a sound of shock. “It was a long time ago, before I was even ordained, but we were in seminary together, although he was older than I.”

John took a breath as though to speak, then stopped. Denis heard the indrawn breath and actually looked directly at him for the first time since the figure had appeared. “Yes?”

“Bishop Arilan?” John began, then stopped again.

Denis took a deep breath in his turn. “My son, maybe this will be easier.” He rested his hands on the seminary student’s shoulders and brushed his shields with a stronger tendril of thought. John’s tear-reddened eyes widened again, in wonder this time.

“Bishop Arilan?” John said again. “You’re—”

Denis nodded and slid his shields down so that John could brush his mind. John barely dared to breathe but very tentatively reached out his mind to touch the bishop’s. John abruptly dropped the contact and fell into tears again. Denis allowed his shields to return to their normal position but left his hands on John’s shoulders, allowing him to cry for a few minutes.

“A bishop? A Dery—”

“Shh,” Denis whispered. “It’s not safe to say it, even quietly in the middle of the night.” Denis paused. “Suffice it to say, I agree with my friend. You’re doing the right thing. If you have a true vocation, then there is nothing for you to do but become a priest. As to the other thing, I think we can assume from tonight’s—visitation that you have God’s blessing, even if man is a few steps behind.” The bishop paused. “And you have mine.”

John smiled through the remains of his tears. “That makes me feel better. Immeasurably better.” He paused. “I have a question for you, but I’m afraid it’s going to sound very forward of me.”

Denis smiled. “Go ahead.”

“What happened to Father Jorian?”

Denis’ smile disappeared. “Do you want to know how he died, or how they knew?”

John hesitated. “Both, if it’s not too much bother for you.”

“Do you know what merasha is and what it does?” he asked John, who nodded. “There was merasha in the wine at his ordination. That’s how they knew.” Denis stopped and frowned in old pain. “He was...he was burned at the stake.” 

John sharply drew in his breath. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

Denis raised a hand to stop him. “I think, from tonight, he’d have wanted you to know.”

John managed a wan smile. “I guess so.” He paused again. “I have another forward question, my lord.”

Denis smiled in response. “We’re long past the point of shyness, my son.”

“Does it make you uncomfortable?” he asked hesitantly.

“Does what make me uncomfortable?” Denis returned, somewhat confused.

The young seminarian paused again. “Being noticed by a saint,” John finally blurted. Denis’ blue-violet eyes widened as hugely as John’s had when the apparition first appeared. He did not speak for a few moments, and when he did, his voice was extremely quiet.

“I never—I never actually thought of it that way. Before tonight, I—well, I thought it was my imagination or wishful thinking or something, that my friend was somehow still with me, but you obviously saw him.” John nodded. “In any case, he’s clearly taking an interest in me—and in you. And you, do you feel better now?”

“As I said earlier, immeasurably,” John said, almost on a laugh.

“Then I think it’s time you went back to your bed, and I’m going to go to mine. Just remember you have friends—some in very high places, from tonight.” Denis smiled and John did laugh this time, quietly. John straightened his back and rose from the prie-dieu, and Denis extended his hand as if to shake hands. John dropped to his knee, this time on the floor instead of at the prie-dieu, and kissed Denis’ amethyst ring.

“Good night, then, my lord bishop, and thank you. More than I can ever say,” he said, his head still bowed over Denis’ hand.

“You’re very welcome, my son, and good night to you,” Denis replied. The young man stood then and disappeared in the direction of the seminarians’ dormitory. Denis returned to the guest room in the bishop’s palace where he was lodged, but it was a long time before he slept that night.


	2. Echoes of the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bishop Arilan reevaluates some memories in context of the events of Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short chapter, but it was the logical point at which to place a chapter break.

**10 June 1121, the bishop’s palace, Dhassa**

In his room, Denis remembered the first time he’d seen the apparition; it had been late the night after his ordination. He had been in his room at Arx Fidei, still feeling the exaltation and wonder of the ceremony, when he saw what he thought was a figment of his imagination: his friend, standing in the corner of the silent dormitory, looking very like he had looked at his ordination before the merasha-poisoned wine had destroyed everything for him. He was smiling in a way he had never done in life—a combination of knowledge, awe, and joy. The figure of Jorian had said nothing at the time; he had just stood there smiling benignly and then vanished. He was there so briefly that Denis convinced himself he had imagined the appearance.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The first time the apparition spoke to him was in 1112 on the anniversary of his ordination. Denis was in bed about to blow out the candle and go to sleep when he saw Jorian just appear out of thin air as if using a Portal where there was no Portal. He stared, completely flabbergasted.

“My old friend, you _do_ know who I am?” the figure asked. Denis could only nod.

The figure of Jorian smiled. “I have on good authority,” he began, and Denis would have sworn that there was laughter in the spectre’s expression and tone. “That you’ve been told to get yourself transferred to Rhemuth because there is a young Deryni seminarian on track to be ordained next year.” Denis nodded again, still dumbstruck. “His name is Lord Duncan McLain, and it is important for reasons you know and reasons you do not yet know that he be ordained. Your help is key.” Denis nodded a third time. Jorian paused. “This is not just your Council’s will; it is the will of our Lord God.” The apparition smiled again. “Be blessed and know that while men may disagree, you are doing the work of God.” And with those words and a gesture of blessing, he vanished as quickly as he had arrived.

Denis stared at the place where the figure had been, wondering if he should pinch himself or if he was hallucinating. But his allies on the Camberian Council had in fact told him that he was to transfer to Rhemuth as soon as possible to facilitate the ordination of this young man. What in the world was going on here? Maybe that was the wrong phrasing, Denis thought and almost laughed. Whatever was going on, it was clearly not in the scheme of normal worldly events.

Denis began to tell himself that he was imagining things or dreaming before he had actually slept. With an uneasy mind, he eventually fell into a troubled sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The figure of Jorian appeared to him again the night before his consecration as a bishop, and by now, Denis had begun to believe that something was going on that could not be explained by human—or Deryni—means. As with the night after his ordination, it was a brief visit; the figure, dressed as ever as Jorian had been on the day of his ordination, did not speak this time but appeared, smiled kindly, made the sign of the Cross over Denis, and promptly disappeared.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

But until the warm summer night in the Cathedral of Saint Senan with the young seminarian, he had mostly talked himself into believing it was wishful imaginings on his own part. Young Nivard’s assertion that they had been visited by a saint shook Denis more than he cared to admit and certainly more than he would ever show. If anybody Denis had ever known deserved to be elevated to the Altars, it was Jorian de Courcy, but he just found it hard to grasp. Had he truly come under special notice from God and His saints? Perhaps not on his own merits, but on the merits of his life’s work? Perhaps that was it, that God wanted the work of restoring the standing of Deryni in Gwynedd done and done right, and was guiding Denis since he was in an ideal position to see progress made. It made Denis feel a little better to think that it was not really he whom God had noticed but his efforts on behalf of his people. He began to pray quietly, mostly directly to God, but also, silently, to—dare he say it—the saint who had taken such a personal interest in him and Deryni ordinands in general. Perhaps someday, even the Church would recognize Jorian’s sanctity. On that thought, the young bishop finally fell asleep.


	3. Peril and Intervention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The as-yet-unrecognized St. Jorian begins to intervene more directly.

**18 July 1138, outside Rhemuth**

Bishop Duncan McLain had gone out for a ride, riding through Rhemuth from St. Camber’s Chapel northeast toward the center of the city then on a more easterly route down Church Street and out Fairgate. Once outside the city walls, he crossed Maiden Field and neared a forested area. He was enjoying the summer sun himself, but thinking his horse might welcome the cooler shade, he turned slightly south to head toward the Molling River to allow his horse a drink from the river. Under the trees at the river’s edge, he tethered his horse where it could reach the water and sat on the bank, simply enjoying a few hours away from his responsibilities.

He was thus very startled when someone he could not see and barely heard came up behind him and cracked him on the head hard enough to knock him unconscious.

He awoke an indeterminate amount of time later in what smelled like a barn with a sack over his head so that he could not see. He attempted groggily to move his hands and remove the sack but found his hands were tied behind his back. Upon trying to move his legs, he realized his ankles were likewise tied together.

Duncan heard footsteps crunching in the hay, and suddenly the sack was forcefully yanked off his head. He realized it must be after dusk, because he could see no better with the sack off than on. Someone forced a cup to his lips, and being thirsty, he drank. Very shortly, he realized that was a mistake, as the ale was poisoned with merasha, and his mind grew foggy and confused. He realized, dimly, that he was being moved, as the sack went back on his head and two people lifted him, one holding his bound feet and the other carrying him under his arms. He was placed into a wheeled conveyance of some sort, a wagon by the ride, and the wagon took off for parts unknown. After some length of time—Duncan could not decide how long with his drugged brain—the wagon stopped, and he was roughly hauled out of the conveyance in the same manner he had been put in the thing in the first place.

Someone removed the sack from his head again, and he thought it might be near dawn, as he could barely make out the candle-lit shapes of people. Another cup was brought to him and he was forced to drink, though since the merasha-laced ale, he was unwilling. As his mind cleared a bit, he realized that this ale had not been tainted. Someone wanted him at least somewhat clear-headed now.

The sack was thrown back over his head, and he was left either alone or with a very quiet guard in what smelled like another barn or stable. As his mind began to work again, he became very alarmed and tried without much success to calm himself. Panic would serve no good purpose, but he could barely keep himself from screaming.

Suddenly, he sensed a kindly presence in his mind whose nearness calmed him and reminded him of something that had happened years before.

_On the night before his ordination, Duncan McLain could not sleep. He lay in bed, restless but trying not to move so as not to disturb the others who would be ordained in the morning who were probably at least trying to sleep. He was very anxious, knowing that he, as a Deryni, should not be seeking ordination, and he was very worried about the day to come. He looked over at a corner of the dormitory, not sure what had drawn his attention until a dim shimmer of light appeared, in which stood a young man of about his own age, dressed in a white ordination cassock. He was of average height and medium build, with brown hair and very kind brown eyes, and he was smiling gently, looking directly at Duncan in his bed. As if he were “hearing” Mind-Speech, Duncan sensed a light tenor voice in his mind.  
“You do not know me, my son, but you will one day. Know that God is with you, this night, tomorrow, and always. Be blessed in the light of the Lord. Rest now,” the figure said, raised his hand and made the sign of the Cross over Duncan, and faded away. Duncan’s eyes widened, wondering what had just happened, but he suddenly—finally—felt sleepy and drifted off to a restful sleep, awakening early on his ordination day feeling both peaceful and excited._

The same presence who had calmed him before his ordination seemed to be here now, calming him once again, whispering gently that God was with him and that salvation—earthly salvation—was coming. Duncan was not sure exactly what was happening, and he had no idea who was with him, but for some reason he could not define, he trusted the kindly presence and managed to slow his breathing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**20 July 1138, early morning, Coroth Castle**

His Grace the Duke of Corwyn awoke a little before dawn, wondering why he was up before the sun. He rolled over in bed, facing now away from his wife, and realized then that a corner of his bedchamber was dimly lit, and the figure of a young man stood in the pale light. An old memory surfaced, and he recognized the glowing figure and stared in awe at someone he knew to be long dead.

_“Your Grace, you must awaken! Your cousin the bishop is in grave danger. He has been abducted and taken to Sheele, and his life is in peril. You must get to him as quickly as possible to help find and save him before it is too late,”_ the apparition said urgently. Alaric realized that the figure was speaking to him in Mind-Speech, because his lady Richenda lay still soundly asleep, apparently undisturbed until the figure vanished and Alaric threw off the bedclothes.

“Darling, what’s wrong?” Richenda asked groggily as she sat up. Rather than answering aloud, he took her hands and imparted the information that he needed to contact someone in Rhemuth straightaway. She realized he was holding something back, but before she could protest and insist on the whole story, he released her hands, got out of bed, and threw on a shirt and breeches as he walked out the bedroom door.

Alaric went immediately to his study, wherein lay a large crystal of shiral. Forcing himself to calm down and center, he focused on the crystal, Calling the lady Rothana in Rhemuth. To his surprise—and alarm—she was awake and receptive.

_“Your Grace, why are you contacting me this early in the morning?”_ she asked without preamble as she appeared in the crystal in wimple, veil, and grey Servants of Saint Camber robes.

_“My lady, I think there is something gravely wrong,”_ he began.

Rothana interrupted him. _“In that you are absolutely correct. Bishop McLain is missing. He went for a ride yesterday afternoon and did not return. A student found the horse he took from the basilica stables tethered by the Molling River but no sign of the bishop.”_

It took Alaric very little time to make his next decision. _“I’ll be in Rhemuth as soon as I can get there. I’ve been told—it’s a long story—but I’ve been told he’s being held at Sheele. Can you contact someone in Valoret and see if they can investigate?”_

Rothana’s image in the shiral nodded. _“Of course, Your Grace.”_

_“Thank you very much, my lady,”_ he said and ended the contact. He returned to his bedroom and his visibly upset wife. Quickly explaining the whole story to her in rapport, including the visitation by the apparition of a Deryni priest martyred in his boyhood, he told her he was going to Rhemuth via Portal to investigate and hopefully intervene in time.

At that moment, their rapport, easily established by years of marriage, was broken by the appearance of the figure again. This time he spoke audibly to them both.

_“Your Grace, you must not waste time in Rhemuth. You must go directly to Sheele. Take a Portal to Valoret and ride for Sheele with all haste. Your cousin’s life depends upon it,”_ Jorian de Courcy said urgently. Alaric nodded in affirmation to the figure as it disappeared again, and Richenda turned away from him to collect and pack spare clothing for him.

“Get some food from the kitchen before you leave,” she said, no longer angry with him but clearly unnerved; however, her practical side was functioning now. “I’ll pack you some clothes to take, and for heaven’s sake, don’t forget your ward cubes—or your Saint Camber medal so you can tell me what’s happening.”

After less than an hour, Alaric stood next to the Portal he had finally constructed on the ground floor of Coroth Castle, kissed Richenda good-bye, stepped onto the Portal square, and disappeared for the Portal in the sacristy of All Saints’ Cathedral in Valoret.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In Valoret, a young clerk was startled to see a tall blond man wearing an unconventional green and black tunic appear in the sacristy a bit after dawn.

“Hello,” Alaric said kindly. “I’m sorry if I frightened you, but I need to get to the stables as quickly as I can.”

“Um, my apologies, my lord, but who are you?”

Alaric extended his hand with the ring of the King’s Champion on it. “Sorry, lad, I don’t have time for long explanations. I’m the duke of Corwyn, and I need to get a horse as soon as possible.”

The clerk nodded his head and gave the duke directions to the stables from the sacristy. Of course, he knew the name and was intelligent enough to realize that if the duke of Corwyn was in that much of a hurry at this early hour, it had to be a matter of life and death or state security, possibly both. He was curious, of course, but he knew better than to bother Morgan. He bowed politely, which Alaric barely saw as he nearly ran for the stables.

The stablemaster greeted Alaric with a fine horse, already saddled and ready.

“Why, thank you. I’m surprised—”

“Don’t be,” the stablemaster said. “Lady Rothana spoke to the Archbishop—well, to Father Drummond, who got His Grace—and the Archbishop’s guardsmen are at your command, Your Grace.” Alaric’s eyebrows raised in surprised approval, and he thanked the stablemaster again before leaving the stables, where he promptly—and almost literally—ran into the Captain of the Archbishop’s guard.

Recovering, he explained the situation quickly to the captain.

“What do you need of me and my men, Your Grace?” the captain asked.

“I need you to follow me to Sheele, but I think I should find Bishop McLain on my own. If I leave you outside the estate, can your men remain there quietly until I Call for you?”

“Call for us?” the captain asked, sensing the emphasis on the word “call.”

“Yes. I will give you a pendant of Saint Camber. It will tingle when I’m trying to reach you. Take it in your hand, and I’ll be able to speak to you in your mind, even though you’re not Deryni.”

The captain looked first surprised, then impressed. “Very well, Your Grace. Give me the medallion, and we’ll be on our way.”

Once outside Valoret’s northernmost city gate, Alaric rode hard for the estate of Sheele with twenty of the Primate’s guard behind him, arriving at the outer boundaries of the earldom within two hours of taking horse. Realizing that surprise would be essential to the success of his rescue mission, he dismounted and tethered his horse to a tree near a small spring. Instructing the guardsmen to remain there and be as quiet as possible, he continued northward towards the estate proper. For a moment Alaric wondered exactly where on the grounds Duncan was being held, and then he felt Jorian’s saintly presence again in his mind, sending him a mental picture of a dirty, unused stall in the stables.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There in the stables, Duncan lay, head aching and mind still somewhat muddled by the merasha, in the dirty straw. There were two men nearby wearing no livery and bearing no resemblance to anyone Duncan knew. The bishop had no idea where he was or who had abducted him until, of all people, Calder of Sheele appeared in his line of sight. The older priest was immaculately dressed in a crisp black cassock, and his eyes glinted with hatred.

“Finally I have you,” the older man began in a voice seething with loathing. “I’ve been waiting for this moment since you escaped Archbishop Loris in Meara.” He paused for just a second. “You helped them rob me of my see, you’ve profaned the sacrament of Holy Orders, and you’ve polluted the MacArdry line with your Deryni seed.”

Duncan’s eyes showed his surprise and alarm, but his voice was well modulated. “Your own treachery is the reason your see was taken from you—”

“You and your king and your kin, it’s your fault,” Calder interrupted him, then coughed harshly and spat greenish bloody phlegm near Duncan’s feet. It crossed Duncan’s still merasha-muddled mind that perhaps Calder had meant to spit on him and merely—and luckily for Duncan—missed. “And I’m dying. I’ll never regain my rightful place, and you at least in part are to blame. If I must die, I’m sending you to Hell before I face God.”

At that moment, they all started, hearing a sound outside the stables. “Go find out what that was,” Calder barked at the other two men. Turning back to Duncan, he drew a knife and advanced on Duncan, continuing to rant as the bishop tried to gather his mind to protect himself at least, but the merasha—or the growing hangover from it—kept him from accessing his powers.

“You have no right to be a priest, never mind a bishop, and how dare you promote your accursed Deryni cause by teaching children to use those devil-granted—”

Calder’s speech was cut off by what sounded like another cough, and then he abruptly fell forward, collapsing into the horse-soiled straw at Duncan’s feet, a dagger protruding from his back. Duncan’s eyes widened, first wondering how that had happened, and then in grateful realization of exactly how. His cousin Alaric stood in the door of the stall, his hand relaxing from a throwing stance.

“Oh my God,” Duncan began. “I’ve never been so glad to see you in my entire life.” Alaric grinned hugely and leaned over to untie Duncan’s hands and feet, then he helped his cousin up.

“Can you stand?” he asked as he was trying to get Duncan to his feet. Duncan wobbled and leaned on Alaric for support for a moment, fighting dizziness from the head injury and merasha hangover.

“I can, I think, but probably not for long,” Duncan said.

“All right, here, sit here,” Alaric said, helping his cousin to a saddle on the ground, where he could at least sit somewhere besides a bed of fouled straw. From his vantage point near the stable door, Duncan could see the bodies of the two men who had been guarding him for Calder; dead or unconscious, Duncan could not say and at the moment did not much care.

Alaric took his Saint Camber medallion in his hand and Called the waiting guardsmen. Instructing the captain to send a man back to Valoret for a wagon or carriage for Duncan, he asked the rest of the men to join him at the stables.

Just as the guardsmen reached the stables, several other men blustered in. The leader, whom Alaric recognized as Kenward, the Earl of Sheele, looked around in some surprise.

“What in hell has been going on here?” he demanded.

“Your—well, how was Father Calder related to you?” Alaric began.

“A cousin,” Kenward returned shortly.

“Your cousin, then, abducted mine and was going to kill him,” Alaric stated plainly.

“I don’t believe that,” Kenward spat. “My cousin was dying anyway; a priest wouldn’t have risked his immortal soul—”

“Then how did Bishop McLain get here in this state?” Alaric asked, waving a hand toward his disheveled, dirty cousin, whose head, in addition to being covered in dirt and worse, was bloodied from the blow he had received outside Rhemuth.

“I have no idea, but you murdered a priest, you Deryni hell-spawn, and now you’re trying to justify your acts with this outlandish story!” Alaric’s brows raised at Kenward’s epithet.

“Really now? And whose account do you think King Kelson will believe, given that the Archbishop of Valoret sent his men—” The duke waved a hand again to indicate the archbishop’s guardsmen. “—To help rescue Bishop McLain?”

Kenward seemed to deflate at the mention of the king and the Primate of All Gwynedd.

“The facts are on my side, Sheele, as are the king and the Church,” Alaric continued.

“How did you get here?” he blustered weakly, and Alaric realized through his own anger that something beyond the obvious was not right.

“That’s not really any of your concern, and I’d like to know just how much you knew about your cousin’s plan here,” Alaric snapped.

“I didn’t know a damn thing,” Kenward bit off, but Alaric knew immediately that the Earl was lying.

“Really?” the duke said scornfully. “Everybody in Gwynedd knows I’m Deryni, and anybody who knows anything about Deryni knows that we know when someone is lying. The king himself uses that power all the time. You can expect a summons from the Archbishop. Since your cousin abducted and intended to kill a bishop, this will be a matter for the ecclesiastical courts, but I am quite certain the king will take an interest too.” The duke turned to the captain of the guard. “Delegate a few men to stay here and make sure no one conveniently disappears before Archbishop Bradene can investigate and decide how he wants to proceed.”

The captain nodded and began barking orders to his men. Four guardsmen walked to where the two henchmen lay outside the stables. Lashing their hands and feet together, the guardsmen lifted the unconscious men. One man was lifted to the back of the captain’s saddle and tied there so he would not fall off during the trip back to Valoret. The other was tied to the lieutenant’s saddle.

Two of the younger guardsmen helped Duncan to his feet and he staggered, one arm around each of their shoulders, out of the stable. The guardsmen helped the bishop to the area where Morgan had left them and the horses, and the duke sat beside his cousin on the clean grass.

“I can tell they hit you with merasha. Let me see if it’s worn off enough for me to do something about that head injury,” Alaric began. Duncan nodded, and Alaric rested his hands on Duncan’s shoulders, carefully entering rapport. The merasha had in fact worked its way mostly out of Duncan’s system, and Alaric took a careful look at his cousin’s skull just under his tonsure, near the bruising and bleeding. The bone was cracked but not badly broken, and there was no brain injury other than a concussion, which Duncan could recover from easily, though he would probably have a very bad headache for several days. Alaric very gently moved his right hand from Duncan’s shoulder to the head wound and Healed the injury, though Duncan would probably still suffer a headache for a while, just hopefully a lesser one.

“Cousin, you desperately need a bath,” Alaric said, almost on a laugh after he ended the rapport. “But, I think we’d better postpone that until Bradene sees you. I want His Grace to know how badly you were hurt and how close you came to being killed before we clean you up.”


	4. Investigation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The investigation into the events of chapter three.

**20 July 1138, just outside the estate of Sheele**

By mid-afternoon, the guardsman who had been sent back to Valoret to get a carriage returned with a small but fairly comfortable-looking two-horse conveyance. The captain of the guard helped Alaric get Duncan into the carriage, and they returned to Valoret just as the sun was setting, ten men having been left behind at Sheele. Archbishop Bradene, looking tired and angry, was waiting at the Cathedral stables, flanked by a couple of younger men in clerical attire, when the carriage, guarded by his own guardsmen, pulled into the cathedral close.

“All right,” Bradene said to Alaric as the duke dismounted. “What happened?”

“It’s a long story, Archbishop,” Alaric said, handing the reins of his borrowed horse to a stablehand. Morgan walked over to the carriage and opened the door. Duncan was reclining but awake, and the sight of the normally fastidious bishop shocked his superior. His clerical attire was absolutely filthy almost beyond hope, and his brown hair was matted with horse dung, straw, dirt, and blood.

“Good God!” Bradene exclaimed. “I’ll ask again. What. Happened.”

“Calder of Sheele had him abducted and hauled to Sheele, and he was going to kill him, in short. I got there just as Calder had a knife on him.” As Alaric was explaining, the captain of the Archbishop’s guard unceremoniously hauled one of Calder’s two henchmen off the back of his saddle as his lieutenant did the same for the other. “Calder is dead. I’d apologize for killing a churchman, but honestly right at the moment, I don’t much care who he was, given what he did and was about to do to my cousin.” Alaric looked at Bradene, who did not seem terribly upset to hear of Calder’s demise, and then looked to the two guardsmen holding up the semi-conscious men from Sheele. The stockier of the two had a look of confused resentment on his face, and the slimmer man seemed simultaneously confused and frightened. “These two helped him. I knocked them out, but they should be ready now to answer any questions you have, Your Grace.” Alaric paused. “Oh, and the Earl of Sheele knew about it; he told me he didn’t, but he was lying.”

“I will make sure His Majesty knows about the involvement of the Earl of Sheele. As to these two, I think Father Drummond here can handle the early stage of questioning them,” Bradene said, indicating one of the priests, a tall dark-haired man of about twenty-five. “Father Ramsay is a physician, and I’d like him to look at Bishop McLain.” The other priest, a short, stocky man in his mid-thirties, stepped forward to help Alaric get Duncan out of the carriage. “Father Ramsay, I think Bishop McLain would like a bath, and I know physicians find it easier to work on clean patients.”

Alaric looked torn between following Father Ramsay to keep an eye on Duncan and following Father Drummond to find out why these men had been willing to abduct a bishop for someone intent on murdering said bishop. Bradene made the decision for him.

“Go with your cousin. I’ll go with Father Drummond and get a clerk to record the proceedings for you. Incidentally, Father Drummond is Deryni, so he will be able to Truth-Read these two as well as you could,” Bradene said. “Well, maybe not quite as well given age and experience but nearly as well, and he’s not anywhere close to as angry as you are right now.”

Alaric caught up to Father Ramsay, who was not walking terribly quickly because he was helping Duncan, who still seemed a bit woozy between the effects of the head injury and the merasha hangover. The duke stepped beside his cousin, slipped an arm under him, and helped the priest-physician get his patient to a clean room with a large bathtub. Two boys of about ten years were carrying hot water in buckets from the kitchens and emptying them into the tub. On a table nearby there was a bar of soap, a small rough cloth, and a larger length of linen.

The physician helped Duncan out of his filthy attire and into the bath. “Sit there a moment, my lord, whilst I get someone to get these horrible clothes out of here.” Duncan lowered himself into the tub gratefully. The water was cool enough to be comfortable but warm enough to soothe away his aches. When another young servant came from the laundry to take the clothes away, Father Ramsay examined the wound on the back of Duncan’s head.

“How does this feel?” he asked, probing with gentle hands.

Duncan winced slightly. “Not too bad, really. Not comfortable at all, but not terrible either. It feels bruised, but I suppose that’s understandable.”

Alaric spoke up. “I—ah—I Healed the head wound as best I could, Father, so it was worse. It still needs to be cleaned, though.”

“What day is it anyway?” Duncan interjected suddenly.

Alaric regarded Duncan with some alarm. “What day do you think it is?”

“Well, it was the eighteenth when I went for my ride, but I’m fairly sure it’s at least the nineteenth by now, maybe the twentieth,” he said.

Alaric sighed in relief. “It’s the evening of the twentieth.”

Duncan winced again as Father Ramsay began to clean the bruised, bloody area on the back of his head, just below his tonsure. When the warm clean water slid over the soapy spot, Duncan sighed. “That feels a world better.” He reached for the bar of soap. “May I wash my hair please?”

“Let me do it, Bishop,” Father Ramsay replied. “You’ve taken quite a hit, going by the amount of dried blood I just washed off, so you need to rest, but don’t fall asleep yet.” The physician paused. “I assume you were unconscious for a time?”

“Yes,” Duncan replied as the younger man soaped his hair. “But I wasn’t sure for how long, as you probably guessed by my asking the day. They also dosed me with merasha, so that muddled my mind quite a bit too.”

“Close your eyes, Bishop; I’ve got your hair full of soap and I don’t want it getting in your eyes,” Father Ramsay instructed. Duncan complied, and the priest washed and rinsed his hair with the gentle but sure hands of an experienced physician.

Alaric took the small cloth from the table near the bathtub and helped his cousin wash the rest of his body. Father Ramsay helped Duncan stand in the tub then helped him dry himself with the larger piece of linen. One of the young boys who had been filling the tub returned with a clean but mismatched pair of curt-hose, a linen undershirt, a pair of braies, and a plain black cassock. The clothes did not fit Duncan particularly well; the shirt was too large, the braies too small, and the cassock clearly sewn for someone shorter as it ended a few inches above his ankles, but Duncan felt immensely better for being clean and in clean clothing, however ill-fitting. The bishop sat there in his stocking feet while the other boy who had filled the bath returned with Duncan’s own riding boots, freshly polished.

A young man, possibly a seminarian, came to the door of the room and led Alaric and Duncan to adjoining rooms in the guest quarters of the palace. Father Ramsay made himself a pallet on the floor of Duncan’s room after he and Alaric helped Duncan into the bed, which was made with fresh linens that smelled of lavender and summer sun.

“Your Grace, you need to rest. You’ve had what sounds like an extremely strenuous day. I will stay with Bishop McLain, and I’ll wake you if I need you, but you should try to sleep,” the priest-physician said as he got his own bed linens in order.

Alaric nodded, seeing that Duncan was comfortably settled. “Very well, Father, and thank you.”

Father Ramsay smiled. “You’re very welcome. Oh, incidentally, you said you Healed Bishop McLain’s head wound?”

“Yes.”

“I think you did a wonderful job under the circumstances. He should be fine now, although I expect he has a headache and probably will for a few days. But someone should stay with him and make sure he’s all right; that’s my night’s work. As a physician, I’ve wished _I_ were Deryni and a Healer, or at least that there were more Healers around.” Father Ramsay paused. “And our good bishop here is working to get more Healers and other Deryni trained; why would you want to put a stop to that? Healers are a blessing from God.”

“I have no idea, Father, and thank you. I’m just glad that my cousin is safe.”

“Your cousin is glad of that too and really glad to be clean.” Duncan’s voice came from the bed, his tone light and ironic. They all laughed.

“Father Ramsay is right; I need some sleep too,” Alaric said. “So I’ll say goodnight to you both.”

In his own room, Alaric found that some considerate person had left him a large basin of hot water, soap, a cloth, and a towel. He stripped off his road-battered clothes and bathed as thoroughly as he could given that he did not have a tub. He put on an old linen shirt and braies that he kept because the fabric was so soft, then donned black linen breeches and a plain tunic. He walked quietly downstairs to the sacristy and stepped on the Portal.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In Coroth, Lady Richenda was seated not far from the Portal square, quietly stitching on a chemise of Briony’s. Seeing her husband on the Portal, she dropped the embroidery project and almost ran to him. He embraced and kissed her, then he took her hands and entered rapport with her simply because it was easier than explaining his day in words.

Richenda’s eyes were as huge as chargers. “Oh, darling!” she exclaimed. “Is Duncan all right? Are you?”

“A bit the worse for wear, especially Duncan, but he’ll be fine, and I’d be great if I could stay here with you, but I have to go back to Valoret and sort out this mess,” he said, leaning forward to kiss her hair.

She nodded, somewhat disappointed but understanding. “Of course, love. Much as I love having you at home, when duty calls…”

He smiled lovingly and kissed her again, this time on her lips, and he took his time about it. Lifting his face reluctantly, he held her close for another few moments then returned to the Portal. “I’ll come back as soon as I can, even if it’s another brief visit like this to let you know what’s happened.” She nodded again and smiled at him.

“Give my love to Duncan, and let him know I’m praying for him,” she said. “Now go, before I don’t let you leave.”

Alaric laughed, blew her a kiss, and disappeared back to the sacristy in Valoret. Once there, he walked back upstairs to his guest room, stretched out in the bed, and fell asleep nearly as soon as he was horizontal.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That same evening, in another part of the Palace of the Archbishop of Valoret, Father Drummond regarded Calder’s henchmen severely, while the Archbishop himself stood behind and off to the right, also looking at the men with distinct displeasure. A clerk of about twenty years sat at a small table, rapidly scribbling notes.

“Let’s start with names,” Father Drummond said. “Who are you?”

The one of the pair who was larger and stockier did not speak. The smaller one said, “My name is Thomas Fitzgerald.” The older man finally spoke. “Shut up, Tom. Don’t tell them anything.”

From behind Father Drummond, Archbishop Bradene laughed mirthlessly. “You don’t seem to appreciate the seriousness of your situation. You participated in a conspiracy to kill a bishop; you’re just lucky you didn’t succeed.”

“He’s no bishop,” the stocky man almost spat out the words. “He’s Deryni.”

Bradene raised his brows. “In case you missed it, the Statutes of Ramos were overturned several years ago. He is both, and you helped someone who wanted to commit murder, which last I checked was a mortal sin.” Bradene took a deep breath. “Now, you and your friend here can do one of two things, as I see it. You can cooperate and throw yourselves on the mercy of the Church, or I can turn you over to His Majesty, who I can assure you will not look kindly at all on your behavior. Father Calder was the only one involved in this that I know of who could claim benefit of clergy, and he’s already facing divine justice.”

The smaller man seemed to deflate as Bradene continued. “Now, do you want to tell me exactly what happened, or do I let King Kelson’s men have at you?”

The one who had identified himself as Thomas Fitzgerald began to explain as the other one looked sulky and recalcitrant. “We were in Meara with Bishop Calder and Archbishop Loris—”

“Father Calder hasn’t been a bishop in quite some years now due to his own treason, and as for Loris, he was as good an Archbishop as you are a man,” Bradene snapped. Fitzgerald looked chastened. Bradene looked at him, waiting for further explanation.

Abruptly, the stockier one spoke. “I don’t recognize your authority to do a damn thing,” he snarled. “You were party to the Haldane’s plot against the Archbishop and Queen Caitrin. I don’t have to obey you or that upstart who calls himself king.”

Bradene gave another bark of cold laughter, then turned to Father Drummond. “I think the king’s men will be here sometime tomorrow. Perhaps these two need a night to contemplate their sins. I will of course obey the king’s will with regard to these men, since there doesn’t seem to be any need for ecclesiastical trial here.” He paused. “Perhaps one of the king’s interrogators will be more successful.”

Fitzgerald started to speak again. “No, Your Grace, please—” he begged, as his friend violently lurched at him and hissed another “Shut up!”

Bradene started to leave then turned back to Father Drummond. “Separate them for the night.” He put a hand on the door latch. “Oh, and make sure their rooms are not close to each other,” he added as he left.

Father Drummond stuck his head out the door and summoned a few of the archiepiscopal guardsmen who had been waiting outside the door. “Did you hear His Grace’s instructions?” he asked. The senior guardsman nodded. “Then I’ll leave you to it.”

The young priest caught up to the departing archbishop, who asked, “Did you get anything?”

“Well, the one called Fitzgerald is honestly afraid, and the other one isn’t lying about their loyalties. I would need closer contact with him to get his name, though,” Father Drummond replied.

“I think we’ll just let the king’s men handle these two,” Bradene said. “I will naturally keep an eye on the proceedings, but I’d honestly rather see these two hang than suffer any punishment the Church can deliver except excommunication.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

By late the following morning, a contingent from Rhemuth had arrived, including to Bradene’s initial surprise King Kelson himself. Bradene then remembered that Duncan had been one of the king’s tutors in his childhood and his confessor for a time as well.

When the king’s interrogator, a Borderer named Joshua MacIntosh, who was accompanied by two priests and five royal soldiers, got to Thomas Fitzgerald’s cell, he found a very cooperative subject who began to confess almost as soon as the interrogator opened his mouth to ask questions.

MacIntosh began, “So I’m told you’re Thomas Fitzgerald.”

Fitzgerald nodded and began to talk. “The other man who was with me is Royston MacAlister, and he is too stupid to talk,” he said on a nervous laugh. “He’s the one who actually hit Bishop McLain; I drove the cart.”

“You do realize that I am Truth-Reading you. So far you’re doing really well, but I’ll know immediately if you lie to me.” MacIntosh realized that he need not be stern with this one, but he wanted the clearly frightened man to know exactly what was happening.

“Yes, I assumed that the king would have a Deryni question us—me.” Fitzgerald paused. “We—Roy and I—were hired by the Earl of Sheele to help Bish—Father Calder to get to Bishop McLain first, because Father Calder hated him so.” 

“The Earl of Sheele hired you to help Father Calder? Why?” MacIntosh asked.

“Father Calder is—”

“Was,” MacIntosh interjected. “Father Calder is answering to God’s justice right about now.”

Fitzgerald nodded and continued. “He was Lord Kenward’s cousin, and apparently Lord Kenward doesn’t much care for Deryni, so it didn’t take much to convince him to help Father Calder bring down some prominent ones—and their allies.”

“All right, and why was Calder in such a hurry to get to Bishop McLain?”

“He—Father Calder—had consumption, and he didn’t trust his fellows to get to McLain before he died of that.”

“Who are those fellows?” MacIntosh asked.

“Nevan d’Estrelldas, Gilbert Desmond, and Mir de Kierney. Raymer de Valence was part of it in the beginning, but he died a few weeks ago.”

“Interesting. So this all began in Meara during the rebellion?” MacIntosh led.

“Yes. They had all hoped that Que—that Lady Caitrin and Lord Sicard’s men would defeat Kel—King Kelson’s and that they would be richly rewarded for supporting her. When things went the other way and they were punished, they became resentful and began to write letters to each other, meeting at times in person, to try to find a way to at least ruin the people they felt were responsible for their downfall.”

“And what persons would those be, the ones these miscreant former bishops felt were responsible for their loss of status?”

“Well, obviously, McLa—Bishop McLain. Also Bishop Arilan, Bish—oh, now he’s an archbishop—Cardiel, Bishop Tolliver was high on the list since he was always tolerant of Morgan—”

“You mean, His Grace the Duke of Corwyn?” MacIntosh interjected in a chastising tone.

“Yes, the duke of Corwyn,” Fitzgerald corrected himself. “Actually, His Grace was on their list too.”

“The duke of Corwyn was a target?”

“Yes, absolutely,” Fitzgerald confirmed. “Archbishop Bradene, for spearheading the repeal of the Statutes of Ramos, was also one they wanted dead. The last one I knew of was the king himself, but I don’t know how they thought they’d get to him.” 

“And who else besides these former bishops was involved in this conspiracy?” MacIntosh asked.

“They all had hired men, like me—and Roy. I don’t know all the names of the hired men.” Fitzgerald paused. “You’d have to ask them.”

“Oh, we will, never fear that,” MacIntosh said on a smile. “And where might we find Fathers d’Estrelldas, Desmond, and de Kierney?”

“Bisho—Father d’Estrelldas was to go to Coroth, de Kierney was headed for Transha last I knew—oh, the duke of Cassan was also on the list, since he’s Bishop McLain’s son—and Father Desmond is on the way to Rhemuth; he was going to go after His Majesty, I think,” Fitzgerald admitted.

“Well, His Majesty is here, as is the duke of Corwyn, but someone needs to get the word out to the others whilst we round up the involved parties,” MacIntosh said. At that, one of the priests who was monitoring the interrogation nodded to the king’s interrogator and left the room.

When the priest found Archbishop Bradene in conference with the king, Alaric, and a very tired-looking Duncan, he bowed to all the men and gave a quick but thorough report of what had transpired in the interrogation. Bradene was outraged to find out that he was a target, and he immediately sent a page for Father Drummond so he could notify Cardiel in Rhemuth, Arilan in Dhassa, and Tolliver in Coroth. The priest informed them of the list, and Duncan started.

“I need to talk to Dhugal,” Duncan said, sounding almost panicky.

Kelson, who was sitting between Alaric and Duncan, placed a comforting hand on his former tutor’s shoulder. “I’ll do it, Bishop. You need to rest.” Kelson, seeming fairly calm under the circumstances, picked up a pendant of shiral that hung around his neck, centered himself with a few deep breaths, and made the contact.

_“Dhugal?”_ he sent.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In Kierney, the duke of Cassan was eating his midday meal when he felt Kelson’s voice in his mind calling his name.

_“Kel? What’s going on?”_ he asked in Mind-Speech.

_“You’re in danger. There’s a priest called Mir de Kierney who is on his way to Transha looking for you to kill you. It’s a long story, but de Kierney and some old friends of his tried to kill your father, and you’re on their list, too. You need to protect yourself, and maybe you can find him before he finds you. I’d like to have a chat with someone who saw fit to conspire to kill half the Curia and at least two of my dukes—they were after Morgan too,”_ Kelson explained quickly.

_“Wait, what?!”_ Dhugal asked. _“They tried to kill my father?”_

_“Duncan’s fine now. Alaric got to him in time.”_ Kelson reassured Dhugal. _“He’s a little the worse for wear, but he’s safe and sound. He’s right beside me, in fact. I can bring him into the contact if it’ll make you feel better to talk directly to him.”_

_“Yes, please,”_ Dhugal was saying in Kelson’s mind even as he felt Duncan’s familiar presence enter the link.

_“Hello, son,”_ Duncan began. _“I understand Kelson has brought you up to date on what’s been happening.”_

_“Yes, Father,”_ Dhugal replied. _“Are you really all right?”_

_“Yes, son.”_ Duncan’s voice sounded tired but slightly amused. _“I have a splitting headache, I’m tired, and I’m getting over a merasha hangover, but I’m fine. Really. Now you see to yourself. His Majesty and Alaric are here to watch over me.”_

_“All right,”_ Dhugal said. _“Kel?”_

_“Right here,”_ Kelson replied instantaneously.

_“I’m sending some men to Transha now, and I’ll let you know as soon as I find this traitor priest. You said the name was Mir de Kierney?”_

_“Yes,”_ Kelson confirmed.

_“All right,”_ Dhugal said again. _“Let me say farewell for now, and I’ll be in touch.”_ At that, all three of them ended the contact. 

Dhugal barked orders to his men, sending his kinsman Jass MacArdry to lead the expedition to find the priest.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

At the palace of the Archbishop of Valoret, Duncan sighed tiredly. Kelson did not miss the bishop’s exhaustion.

“What we need to do now is round up these priests and find out who they hired. Bishop Duncan, why don’t you go rest? You’re obviously the worse for wear, and you don’t absolutely have to be here right now,” Kelson said.

“I want to know what’s going on,” Duncan said stubbornly through his fatigue.

Alaric interjected. “I promise I’ll let you know every single detail, but Kelson is right. You need to rest.”

Duncan sighed again and relented. “All right, I’ll go back to my room. You’d better keep that promise though, Cousin.”

Alaric smiled. “Of course.”

When Duncan, followed by the watchful Father Ramsay, left the room, Bradene said, “All right then. Your Majesty, I will without question turn over the hired men to the king’s justice. The priests I reserve judgment on until I speak with them, but it’s likely at this point that they’ll end up in your courts as well, as for treason and a conspiracy of this magnitude, I’m well within my rights to deny them the benefit of clergy. I’ve considered excommunication, but I’ll reserve judgment on that concept until I actually speak with the men in question. What do you want done with the two we already have, Fitzgerald and MacAlister?”

“They’re both subject to execution, but I’m inclined to be more lenient toward Fitzgerald since he was so informative once he realized the game was up. However, they will face trial in a proper court, and they should have access to a priest before they meet whatever end,” Kelson said. “I may ask my uncle Prince Nigel to preside over the trial, because I don’t particularly trust myself to be impartial.” Kelson paused a moment then continued in a tightly controlled voice that depicted his anger much more clearly than a shout. “As to Lord Kenward, I’d like to talk to him personally, but I may leave that to MacIntosh because he won’t want to pull out the Haldane sword and decapitate him on the spot.”

Bradene nodded. “Very well, Your Majesty. On that note, I think you and I both have a search to organize. I’ll place my guard at your disposal of course; I think they would be best suited to guarding these reprobate priests once we have them, and they will naturally give the clear indication that not only are you looking for them but so am I. These criminals will find no refuge in _my_ Church.”


	5. The Trial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The conspirators meet justice.

**21 June 1138, the bishop’s residence, Dhassa**

Denis Arilan was mildly annoyed when someone knocked on the door to his apartments, where he was reciting the office of Terce. Sighing, he got up from his prie-dieu and answered the door. A young clerk stood there, short of breath as if he had been running.

“My lord bishop, you have an urgent message from Archbishop Bradene,” the clerk said, handing Arilan a rolled piece of parchment.

“Thank you,” Denis replied, taking the missive. The clerk disappeared down the corridor. Denis opened the seal and began to read, his mood shifting from vexation to outright anger. The short version was that he needed to get to Valoret posthaste, because Bradene was calling a meeting of the Curia to deal with the rogue former bishops. Denis was outraged at the contents of the letter, which indicated that he himself was in significant danger, but he knew he needed to calm himself before he left. He knew it would be best to travel via Portal since the conspirators had not all been rounded up, and his prominent place on their list meant that more conventional means of travel would be highly unsafe.  
A light from the corner of the room distracted him from his irritable thoughts. There in the light stood Jorian.

“My old friend, our time has come,” the saintly figure said plainly.

“What do you mean?” Denis asked, genuinely puzzled.

“Soon I think you will know exactly what I mean, but in short, a goal that has been forming in your mind for some years now is about to come to fruition,” the apparition explained. Denis continued to look bemused, but the figure simply blessed him with a gesture and disappeared again.

Denis shook off his perplexity and packed clothing for his trip to Valoret. He realized that despite the circumstances, he was looking forward to seeing the other bishops, and a more vengeful part of himself wanted to see the conspirators—of whose existence the letter from Bradene had informed him—suitably punished.

Bishop Arilan went downstairs to inform a monsignor of his impending absence and the reason for it, and then he went to the sacristy, stepped on the Portal there, and disappeared for Valoret.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thomas Cardiel, Archbishop of Rhemuth, had already arrived in Valoret with the assistance and in the company of Father John Nivard when Denis materialized in the sacristy. Denis met the same clerk who had been so surprised by Morgan a few days earlier, and the clerk directed him first to a guest room so he could put away his belongings and from there to the hall where Bradene was convening the Curia.

Cardiel immediately got to his feet when he saw Arilan. Greeting his old friend, the human archbishop embraced his Deryni confrère. “I’m so glad to see you. When I heard, I was very worried for your safety in particular,” Cardiel said, ending the friendly hug. Nivard likewise stood.

“Oh, thank God you’re here and all right, my lord!” Nivard exclaimed to Denis after exchanging a similar relieved embrace with his mentor.

“I’m all in one piece,” Denis said on a laugh. “Now, I understand from His Grace’s letter that we will have the duke of Corwyn and His Majesty sitting in on the trial once the culprits are in custody?”

Cardiel nodded. “It’s in their interest too, especially given that they were targets of this conspiracy, and Bradene is seriously considering excommunicating d’Estrelldas, Desmond, and de Kierney for their actions, so in that case, it will become a matter for the king’s courts. Also, I believe we’ll have the duke of Cassan with us, too, since he was a target as well.”

“So what’s the progress on finding these three and their hirelings?” Denis asked.

“I’m not sure. I think Bradene’s captain is coordinating it with the king and Morgan, but Morgan is pretty upset—understandably—and I think there’s something he’s not telling us yet, like how in the world he knew what was happening to Duncan McLain in time to save _his_ neck,” Cardiel answered. “Not, mind you, that I’m sorry Morgan was able to intervene; Bishop McLain has been a fantastic auxiliary and is doing a wonderful job with the schola. I’m just left wondering _how._ ”

“Well, we’ll have the opportunity to find out soon enough, I should think,” Denis replied. “But I must admit that piques my curiosity as well.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**22 July 1138, Sheele**

 

Kenward Calder, Earl of Sheele, was not surprised when a messenger, accompanied by fifteen archiepiscopal guardsmen, arrived from the Archbishop of Valoret, since Alaric Morgan had essentially promised him such a visit. The messenger informed him that he was expected in Valoret posthaste to face both the archbishop and the king for questioning and likely trial.

What Kenward did _not_ expect happened during the short ride from Sheele to Valoret. He saw what he thought was the filmy form of a young man in a priest’s ordination robes standing in the path directly in front of his horse. The horse reared too fast for Kenward to react; he was thrown directly backward, landing almost comically on the back of his head. The lieutenant of the guard looked back at the path, but the apparition—whatever or whoever it had been—was gone. He turned back to see to the earl, but it was too late. The landing had snapped Kenward’s neck, and he was dead by the time the lieutenant dismounted.

“Well, I suppose His Majesty is going to be disappointed with _this_ ,” the lieutenant began. “But I think justice comes in a variety of ways.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**30 July 1138, Valoret**

The three priests who had once been bishops had been found. Dhugal MacArdry McLain, Duke of Cassan, had sent his kinsman Jass MacArdry to find Mir de Kierney, and Jass had not let him down. Mir de Kierney, despite Dhugal’s direction not to harm the man, looked a bit roughed-up by the time the Cassan contingent arrived in Valoret. The priest was still wearing his clericals. although they were torn and dirty, and he also sported an impressive black eye on the left side of his face. Jass had not taken kindly to the priest’s intention, and while de Kierney was very much alive and not badly harmed, he was looking decidedly cowed.

Nevan d’Estrelldas had been captured in Coroth by Tolliver’s episcopal guard and brought completely unharmed but under heavy guard in Tolliver’s party to Valoret. He carried himself proudly and rather as if he felt himself wronged by the entire proceeding.

Arilan found himself, in addition to angry at the audacity of the man to plan an attempt on Kelson’s life, quite disappointed in Gilbert Desmond, who had once been his ally during the long-ago Interdict Schism. Prince Nigel’s guard had found Desmond, and Nigel had been hard-pressed to ensure the man’s safe conduct to Valoret from Rhemuth, given that Desmond made no secret of his intentions toward Kelson. However, Nigel’s sense of honor prevailed, and Desmond had, like d’Estrelldas, been transported to Valoret on horseback with his hands tied to his saddle horn and several soldiers of the Palace Guard watching his every move.

Kelson was indeed a little disappointed that the Earl of Sheele had not survived the trip to Valoret, but like the guard lieutenant, he felt a certain philosophical satisfaction that God had dealt with the earl as He saw fit. Kelson declared the earldom of Sheele forfeit to the Crown for the participation of the Calder family in the conspiracy, the earldom to be disposed of in a fashion he had not yet decided upon. Bradene was interested in his lieutenant’s report of seeing what he thought was a man on the roadway, but the lieutenant seemed a little hesitant, as if he were not entirely sure he had seen anything at all.

The outcome of the trial of the three men was almost a foregone conclusion. Since not one of the three seemed repentant in the least, Bradene had no scruples about turning them over to the royal courts for trial. As Kelson had mentioned before, he left the actual presiding to Prince Nigel since he did not trust his own impartiality, but he attended every minute of the proceedings.

When Morgan was called to testify regarding Calder of Sheele, Cardiel’s curiosity got the better of him.

“Your Grace, how did you know that your cousin the bishop was in such danger, and how did you know where to find him?” the Archbishop of Rhemuth asked.

Alaric hesitated. “I’m not sure you’d believe me if I told you, Archbishop,” he said.

Cardiel chuckled. “Try me.”

“I’m not sure you were even in Gwynedd when this happened, but many years ago, a young Deryni priest named Jorian de Courcy—” Denis Arilan, who sat beside Cardiel, nearly snapped the tendons in his neck to look in Morgan’s direction but the duke of Corwyn continued speaking as if he had not noticed. “—Was executed at the stake. My—um—well—my political enemies insisted that I attend his execution.” Arilan was paying rapt attention to Alaric now, as was Father Nivard, who was on Cardiel’s other side. Cardiel merely nodded and gestured for Alaric to continue his story. “I was thirteen, and the experience, as you might imagine, made quite an impact.” Alaric paused.

“Go on,” Cardiel urged.

“I saw him—Father de Courcy—the morning that I rescued my cousin. He came to me at Coroth and told me what was happening and that I needed to get here to Valoret and from here to Sheele to save Duncan from death,” Alaric finally said, clearly reluctant to tell the outlandish story.

Bradene interjected. “Your Grace, are you saying that the image of a man who died nearly thirty years ago came to you to tell you to rescue Bishop McLain?”

Alaric looked almost embarrassed. “Yes, Your Eminence,” he said. “But I don’t think I was seeing a ghost exactly.”

“He wasn’t a ghost, no,” Nivard said. Alaric’s facial expression changed from abashed to surprised.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, let me put it this way. If you’re haunted by this ghost, so am I,” Nivard said on a slight smile. “I saw him before my ordination, when Bishop Arilan took me under his wing. I wouldn’t have known his name but for Bishop Arilan telling me.”

Alaric looked over at Denis in something approaching shock. “How did _you_ know him?”

Denis hesitated in his turn. Bradene gave him a look of stern indulgence, and Denis spoke. “Jorian was in the seminary class before mine; I was at his ordination, and I was at his execution as well. I didn’t know you were there, although I don’t suppose I’d have known you by sight at the time anyway.”

“I’m going to let this line of discussion go on because _I’m_ curious,” Bradene said on a smile. “Continue, Bishop Arilan.”

“I’ve—well—I’ve seen him several times since his death,” Denis went on. “He showed up to me the night after _my_ ordination, he told me I needed to be in Rhemuth when Duncan McLain was ordained to make sure he wasn’t betrayed the way Jorian had been—it was merasha in the Chalice—and he showed himself to me the night before my consecration as a bishop, but the first time I saw him that I knew for certain I wasn’t imagining things was when I met Father Nivard for the first time.” Denis said. “He seems to take an interest in Deryni priests in general, from what I can tell.”

“What did he look like in life?” Duncan McLain spoke for the first time in quite a while.

Denis described Jorian quickly. “So _that’s_ who that was. I’ve seen him too. He—um—he sort of helped me get some sleep the night before my ordination, and he came to me at Sheele, although I didn’t at the moment know where I was or who _he_ was, but I saw him there and he told me that help was on the way.”

Bradene smiled. “All right, that’s enough of this for now. When we’ve finished with these conspirators, I’ll reconvene the Curia to discuss the sanctity of Father de Courcy, did you say the name was?” Denis, John, and Alaric all nodded at once.

Even without the distraction of Jorian’s decidedly posthumous intervention, the evidence against the conspirators was overwhelming, and Bradene addressed the court.

“Your Highness,” he said to Prince Nigel. “I do not see any reason that these men—” he indicated d’Estrelldas, Desmond, and de Kierney with a wave of his hand. “—Should be able to claim benefit of clergy since they decided to kill a good number of the Curia, plus two dukes and the king. Therefore I am turning over the final decision of their disposition to the royal court. I will, however, offer them the chance of confession to a priest before their disposition is carried out.”

Nigel nodded. “Then hear the decision of the court, Nevan d’Estrelldas, Gilbert Desmond, and Mir de Kierney. You are all to be hanged by the neck until dead, punishment to be carried out as soon as possible.”

Desmond looked abashed, de Kierney’s expression was hard to read because of the black eye Jass had given him, and d’Estrelldas still looked haughty and unimpressed. None of them said a word, but d’Estrelldas looked around the room with a sullen expression of hatred on his face. The three, bound at the wrists, were led out by a couple of archiepiscopal guardsmen and a few royal soldiers to be held in secure cells until the executions could be carried out.


	6. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Curia meets again to discuss the appearances of Jorian de Courcy, and Bishop Arilan gets a surprise visitor.

**2 August 1138, Valoret**

On Lammas, four men were hanged unceremoniously outside the walls of Valoret, their bodies cast into a common unmarked grave. Along with the three conspirators, Royston MacAlister was hanged, but Thomas Fitzgerald had by virtue of being willing to testify earned a lesser punishment, his life being spared, but he would live it out confined to a prison cell. A number of other men had been named by Desmond and de Kierney, but the names of d’Estrelldas’ hired men had to be dragged from him by Deryni means. However, all the associates had been rounded up and punished by means varying between hanging and imprisonment. Desmond and de Kierney had taken advantage of Bradene’s willingness to provide them with a priest for a final confession and extreme unction. D’Estrelldas died excommunicate for his unwillingness to confess his sins even to a priest.

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**3 August 1138, Valoret**

 

The following morning, the Curia met again, this time to discuss the very interesting intervention of a priest who had been killed over thirty years earlier.

Bradene had a clerk read back the pertinent testimony from the trial of the conspirators, and then he addressed Denis Arilan.

“Bishop Arilan, you knew Jorian de Courcy well in his mortal life?” the archbishop asked.

“Yes, he was my friend, and I swore when I was ordained to uphold his priesthood. I didn’t know then that he would intervene so directly in my life—and in the lives of others.” Denis gestured to indicate Father Nivard and Bishop McLain.

Bradene took a deep breath. “Denis, I know you well of course, I know Bishop McLain well also, and Father Nivard is King’s chaplain as well as the guardian of the royal library. I think it would have been a great loss to our Church and to our kingdom if these men had not been ordained, and it is clear that they never would have been without divine and saintly intervention. Therefore I will take a vote of the Curia on recognizing the man known in life as Father Jorian de Courcy as saint and martyr,” Bradene said. The Curia’s vote was unanimous.

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**15 August 1138, Valoret**

On the fifteenth of August, it was proclaimed by the Church throughout Gwynedd that Saint Jorian de Courcy’s feast day, shared with Saint Martin, would be celebrated for the first time on the anniversary of his death, the eleventh of November of 1138, and under the direction of Bishop Denis Arilan, the first shrine to his memory and worship was to be built at the Abbey Church of the Paraclete at Arx Fidei, where the saint had been ordained and martyred. He was declared specifically the patron saint of Deryni priests and of martyred Deryni in general. Bishop Duncan McLain lobbied successfully for a second shrine to be built at the Saint Camber chapel in Rhemuth, since he felt it fitting that the chapel of one Deryni saint was a good place for an alcove for another, and he personally wanted to be able to honor the saint who had saved his earthly life.

King Kelson decided that he would find out if the new saint had any living relatives left. It transpired that Jorian’s close family members were all long dead, but he had a cousin, née Lisette de Courcy, who was the wife of a minor knight, Sir Stefan de Varnay. Kelson quickly reached the conclusion that a saint’s family, even if they _were_ somewhat distantly related, should not live in the relative obscurity of landed gentry and promoted Sir Stefan to the newly vacant earldom of Sheele.

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**17 August 1138, Dhassa**

An old human priest named Angus MacKenzie came to Dhassa a few days after the announcement of the new saint and requested to speak privately with Bishop Denis Arilan.

“Yes, Father?” Denis said when the white-haired man, clearly past seventy, was brought into the antechamber of his apartment.

“My lord bishop, when I was a young man, I was on the staff of Archbishop De Nore. I remember clearly the delight he took in the interrogation and execution of de Courcy—I should call him Saint Jorian now—and it made me question my own vocation, to think that the man at the very top of the Church hierarchy could take so much joy out of causing such suffering,” Father MacKenzie began. Denis noticed that he had his hands behind his back as if holding something, and the bishop was a bit intrigued, but he felt no fear. He looked at the elderly priest curiously and gestured to him to continue. “I was at the ordination, too, although nobody really paid a junior priest on the archbishop’s staff any particular attention. I wound up in the sacristy with _him_ , and I saw—Father Oriolt, I think his name was.” At that, Denis nodded and Father MacKenzie continued. “—Take his vestments off him. De Nore kept the stole from the ordination. He taunted—him—with it, told him that he would go directly to Hell for daring to believe he could take up the yoke of Christ.”

“Why are you telling me this now?” Denis asked in no small measure of perplexity mixed with pain.

“Because—” the old man’s blue eyes, still clear and bright despite his age, began to fill with tears. “I have that stole still. I took it after the execution. De Nore threw it into a pile of trash to be burned, but I—I salvaged it. I couldn’t bear to see it destroyed. I sometimes was never sure myself why I kept it all these years,” he said in a voice shaking with emotion. “Until now,” he finished, pulling from behind his back a small linen bag. From the bag he removed a length of clean white silk, slightly yellowed with age, lightly wrinkled from its long storage, and embroidered with a small golden cross at the center back and two larger golden crosses at the ends. “I think now _he_ wanted me to keep it safe. For you.” 

Denis took the offered stole, held it in his hands for a moment, reverently set it on a table, and then he burst into tears with a vehemence that surprised the old priest but shocked Denis himself most of all.

Through his sobs, Denis excused himself to his bedchamber to pull himself together. Re-emerging a few minutes later with red eyes but a clean dry face, he thanked the old priest profusely.

“I don’t know if you know, but they’re building shrines to Saint Jorian. I think it would be fitting if this stole were placed in a reliquary at the shrine to be built at Arx Fidei, and I would be honored if you would attend the dedication ceremony,” Denis said in a voice still rough with emotion.

Father MacKenzie nodded his head, his eyes still full. “I would be more than glad,” he whispered, his own voice breaking. “I never thought that was right, what they did to him. And I’m happier than I can say to hear of his canonization.”

Denis nodded before impulsively embracing the old priest. “Thank you _so_ much for saving that,” he said, indicating the stole, which was still on the table. “I will make very sure that it has a place of honor at Arx Fidei.”

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**11 November 1138, the Abbey Church of the Paraclete, Arx Fidei**

Bishop Denis Arilan had been asked by Archbishop Bradene to dedicate the shrine at Arx Fidei, and so on the eleventh of November 1138, he found himself back at the site of his ordination for the first time in a good many years, in front of a huge congregation that included such luminaries as the King and Queen, the duke and duchess of Corwyn along with half the peers of the realm, and all four children of Denis’ brother Jamyl with their spouses and offspring, all present to witness the formal dedication of the first shrine to the new Deryni saint.

After Denis, dressed to honor the occasion in the finest vestments he owned, had performed the ritual of Mass, honoring both Saint Martin and the newly acknowledged Saint Jorian, he gave a brief homily to dedicate the new shrine in an alcove of the church.

In an unconventional move, accompanied by Father MacKenzie, who had assisted with the Mass, Denis walked over to the alcove, wherein lay a lovely statue, carved and painted to Denis’ specifications—since of anyone still living, he best remembered what Jorian had looked like—and at the feet of the slightly-smaller-than-life statue, a small narrow rectangular casket of marble with a clear glass top sitting off to the side. Before the casket, Denis nodded to Father MacKenzie, who had held the stole whilst Denis said Mass. The old priest offered the stole to Denis, who reverently took it in his hands, kissed the cross at the center back as he would if he were going to vest himself with it, and carefully handed the relic back to its protector. Father MacKenzie’s hands shook slightly—maybe with age, maybe with emotion, maybe both—as he placed the yellowing silk stole in the new reliquary. Denis stepped forward then and carefully placed the glass lid on the casket. Using the power of his well-trained mind, the Deryni bishop arcanely sealed the reliquary, projecting a blue-violet glow around it for a few moments, forever preserving the ordination stole of Father Jorian de Courcy, saint and martyr.

It seemed to Denis as he opened his eyes from performing the arcane sealing that the statue of the newly recognized saint smiled at him. He had been about to look away, and when he looked at the statue again, it was simply carefully painted marble, quiet and cold, but he thought he felt laughter in his mind—and a certain impish joy from Jorian at his discomfiture. Blinking back tears, Denis smiled in a much softer way than was his usual habit, and he bowed at the shrine, offering a silent prayer to his old friend and, as it seemed, his own personal patron saint.


End file.
